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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286580">Follow the Tide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy'>gingerteaandsympathy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bathtub Sex, F/M, Meddling TARDIS, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Telepathic Sex, my usual nonsense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:33:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286580</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The air is sweltering, hazy and hot in a way that would be oppressive if a chill weren’t still clinging to her skin. As it is, the rolling clouds of steam feel like heaven on her wind-burnt cheeks, greeting her before she can even get her clothes off and sink into the bath. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Undressing, she mutters her grateful thanks to the timeship that had unexpectedly directed her to this room—or perhaps "directed" isn't the right word. Her door had actually disappeared from its usual wall, replaced by a glowing arrow and a winding hallway with which she wasn't familiar. And that hallway had led her here.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>187</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Follow the Tide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a few months ago, i made a confession to paigenotblank on tumblr, which was that i've been attempting to write the same tenrose bathtub scene for basically years. but i've never found a circumstance that made sense to me, and i've never had the confidence to actually <em>make it happen.</em> still, the idea wouldn't leave me. so, here's the result.</p><p>title nabbed from a mitski song. <em>of course.</em> also, please note that i'm a notoriously bad self-editor who writes very late at night. thank you, thinky, for looking over it with a fresh pair of eyes and always being my safe harbor in the stormy seas of self-doubt. (get it? it's a water metaphor...)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The air is sweltering, hazy and hot in a way that would be oppressive if a chill weren’t still clinging to her skin. As it is, the rolling clouds of steam feel like heaven on her wind-burnt cheeks, greeting her before she can even get her clothes off and sink into the bath.</p><p>Undressing, she mutters her grateful thanks to the timeship that had unexpectedly directed her to this room—or perhaps "directed" isn't the right word. Her door had actually disappeared from its usual wall, replaced by a glowing arrow and a winding hallway with which she wasn't familiar. And that hallway had led her here.</p><p>The whole room is a novelty to Rose, who has spent most of her life sharing a narrow, one-bathroom flat with her mother and both of their beauty routines. But this room doesn't even really resemble a bathroom so much as a massive, steaming swimming pool under what could very well be an open sky. Marble columns line the perimeter, veined through with gold, and the pale blue ceilings are so high that she can hear the bare patter of her footsteps echoing all around.</p><p>It's luxurious in the extreme, like some sort of ancient bathhouse. And the air smells sweet: like crushed violets and almond oil. Rose finds her breaths slowing, deepening, as she steps down into the water. Her shoulders relax, and the knot of tension—of dread—in her belly begins to give way.</p><p>She wades in slowly, gradually adjusting to the heat and the prickly feeling of blood returning to her limbs. By the time she's submerged to the waist, her hair is steam-damp and plastered to her neck, and the rest of her exposed skin shiny with sweat. She groans at the heavenly feeling of returning warmth. Mere minutes ago, she'd not been able to feel anything but the cold—hadn’t even been able to <em>imagine </em>feeling warm again.</p><p>In the silence and tranquility of the bath, where the fog is impenetrable and private, Rose tries to make sense of the day.</p><p>It had started out like most of their other adventures. Their landing had been rough, though no more than usual with such a rubbish pilot at the helm. The Doctor had warned her that it would be cold, so she'd run back to her room for a coat.</p><p>Of course, he <em>hadn't </em>warned her that, in this particular human colony, pink was a ceremonial color worn only by holy women. Probably because he hadn't known or, more likely, had simply forgotten in his impatience. They hadn't made it more than a few steps into the village before Rose and her pink parka were noticed, then carried off by a crowd to what she could only assume was some sort of nunnery, surrounded by mumbles and chants of "the pink and yellow girl," indistinct and alarming. All she <em>really </em>knew was that, inside those stone fortress walls, it had been bloody cold. The nuns, it seemed, believed in that brand of asceticism that called for a complete lack of material comforts.</p><p>It had taken him hours to find her. <em>Hours. </em>While she tried to make nice with the holy women, who seemed quite determined to share the catechism with their latest sacred visitor, he was presumably finding a way to break her out. In the end, he'd posed as her husband—something forbidden among this particular religious order—and the guards had turned on her as an imposter. Together, they’d made a run for it, back to the TARDIS, which was only made more difficult by her ice-block limbs and tired, freezing brain.</p><p>"<em>I am here to claim my wife,</em>” he’d said.</p><p>His voice echoes in her memory, bold as brass and loud, too. And her heart had jumped with more than just relief when he said it. It felt <em>right</em>, somehow. An accurate assessment of the sort of commitment they'd made. After all, he'd once asked her how long she'd stay with him and she'd replied, "Forever."</p><p>Hadn't that been a promise?</p><p>Maybe even a vow?</p><p>And it had felt good to be claimed—to belong to someone.</p><p>She floats on her back, her hair fanning out in the water, air thick with steam sluicing between her breasts. And she lets her mind wander down those familiar paths—the ones where she ends up in the Doctor's arms. Weighed down by the steam and warmth, her eyes drift shut.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Rose doesn't know how long she's been floating—only that her heart has calmed and her breathing slowed until she is somewhere between waking and sleeping. She trusts the TARDIS to keep her from sinking, of course, but she hasn’t let herself fully go. She can’t. Every few seconds, the touch of the warm water prompts a thrill of appreciation—of relief—that rockets through her system. It keeps her suspended in a hazy high. But she is brought rapidly back to earth by the sound of a squealing hinge, and then footsteps.</p><p>She rights herself, her feet easily finding the marble floor of the pool. It's not very deep, and she regains her footing in time to make him out through the steam. The Doctor.</p><p>Who else would it be?</p><p>And he's—</p><p>
  <em>Well.</em>
</p><p>Rose swallows.</p><p>The Doctor doesn't seem to notice her—odd, since he's always on about heightened senses. He looks distracted, his face pinched and his bottom lip pouting. And of course, there is the small fact that he's completely naked.</p><p>It should be strange, to see him out of the suit, but there is an unselfconsciousness to the way he moves that makes his nudity look natural. He walks like he always does, fast and loping, his agitated, pale limbs breaking up the steam. He is too far away for her to make out the freckles that no doubt smatter his shoulders and arms. And even in profile, it’s all too hazy to make out many details. Certainly none that she <em>shouldn't </em>be seeing. Except maybe the curve of his bum.</p><p>Rose flushes. And she gathers up her willpower to clear her throat. "Doctor," she croaks.</p><p>His arms freeze before the rest of him, mid swing. His feet skid to a halt, and even from a distance, through all this steam, she can see his brown eyes go wide as his face snaps her direction. "Rose!" His voice is pitchy, but he corrects it immediately. "I didn't know you knew this place."</p><p>"I didn't. The TARDIS showed me." She frowns a bit, but fondly. "She disappeared my bedroom door, actually—wouldn't let me go anywhere else."</p><p>"Right." The Doctor nods, and his hair flops limply in the steam. "Probably because your body temperature was too low when you got on board, I should've checked—"</p><p>She can tell, even at this distance, that he’s tense. But his voice catches and he freezes and then he's blinking, too rapidly. His gaze makes her suddenly aware of herself—a sharp pulse that wrings her stomach. She probably looks a right mess, with her hair plastered to her head and her cheeks red from the steam, and—</p><p>And she looks down at her own breasts, bare and above water, right where he can see. <em>Does he see? </em>Her nipples start to tighten in the relatively cool air. Or perhaps it's just the thought of his gaze on her that provokes a reaction.</p><p>"Shit, sorry," she hisses, crouching lower into the water. "I can go if you—"</p><p>"Nah," he hurries out, though his tone sounds suspiciously nonchalant. A parody of himself. He is still oddly frozen in profile. "The TARDIS probably hasn't put your door back, you know how she fusses. D'you… is it all right if I join you? At least let me take your temperature…"</p><p>He wants to get closer? To <em>her?</em></p><p>When they're both… <em>like this?</em></p><p>She forces her voice to be steady. "Sure."</p><p>He loops around another column, the steam chasing him like an ephemeral shadow. And then she averts her eyes as he descends down the opposite stairs, wading out into the shimmering pool. He is a tall smudge of pale skin in the corner of her eye—distinct enough to tell that even at its deepest, the water barely laps at his hips. But it is safe to look again.</p><p>As he comes closer, the steam parting around him, she can make out more detail—the jut of his ribcage, the dusting of hair on his chest, and the line of it that descends from his navel. She has to force herself not to follow it, <em>not </em>to look for shadow in the water.</p><p>He looks—it's funny, she thinks, but he looks exactly like himself, only more… naked. She's not sure what she'd been expecting; perhaps some weird alien appendages. Perhaps nothing at all. She almost snorts at the image of the Doctor, smooth and hairless as a Ken doll. Sexless, even. Had she <em>really </em>been expecting that?</p><p>But he looks like a man, and he walks like a man, drawing closer to her. She notices that he keeps his eyes on her face, refusing to so much as glance at the tops of her shoulders, or the water that she hides under. For someone who regularly mocks prudish humans, he's behaving rather like one.</p><p>He comes close—but not as close as he usually stands, looking painfully aware of their current state of undress. Keeping his eyes mostly averted, he stretches out his arm, and his Doctor-y smell cuts through the steam. It’s amazing how he carries the sharp tang of time and tea, even when he’s been running—even when his familiar smell should be swallowed up in other, stronger fragrances like those of the bath. But Rose finds herself breathing deeper; his smell is more comforting than the violets, awakening her senses and soothing them all at once.</p><p>"Can I take your temperature?" He asks politely, which is odd, because he's mostly very rude.</p><p>She doesn't have the air within her lungs to form an answer, so she just nods. And then, to her complete surprise, he slips his pointer finger into her mouth.</p><p><em>Of course,</em> she wants to laugh, or maybe roll her eyes. <em>Of</em> <em>course. </em>She's frankly just lucky it's not his tongue he's using. <em>Or unlucky, depending. </em></p><p>The finger immediately probes under her tongue and settles there for a moment, like it's a normal thermometer and not a Time Lord's finger. And it shouldn't make her feel—well, anything other than odd, but she can't help but be aware of the stretch of her lips around his second knuckle, of the sweet-bitter flavor of his skin and his slightly cooler temperature. He's watching her face as he waits; probably reading her pupils for signs of hypothermia or something else ridiculous. For a moment, she starts to smile around the appendage, but he frowns. "Don't break the seal," he commands. "Just fifteen more seconds—there's a good girl."</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>The words turn her mind to mush, her limbs into a jellied mass in a way that the hot water hadn't been able to accomplish. She feels her eyes flare and widen, and then a new heat begins to creep up into her cheeks.</p><p>It's Pavlovian. It's sick, honestly. And it's something she's not experienced before. Not with this body, at least. His first one had been a bit more commanding, a bit more assertive in moments of stress, and somehow, it had always left her with a hollow ache in her belly, rubbing her thighs together for relief.</p><p>But she can't do that here, with him watching her; she can't even <em>move</em>. He tilts his head, no doubt aware of the subtle shift in her chemical state. It’s mortifying. So she tries to keep her breathing even and, fifteen seconds later, he dislodges his finger.</p><p>She's not sure whether she's supposed to break the seal now or not, so she keeps her lips around him, reveling in the drag of his skin. Unthinkingly, she hollows her cheeks a little, creating suction—a physical manifestation of her desire not to let go. His jaw tics.</p><p>"Your temperature," he says, voice cracking, "is normal. A bit elevated, actually—you probably shouldn't be in here much longer."</p><p>"Right." She swallows again, the taste of his skin still on the very tip of her tongue. "I'll just—"</p><p>Her eyes search for somewhere safe, somewhere to rest, but his chest fills her vision. His clavicle rises sharply every time he takes a sudden breath, and looking any lower is a dangerous game. She closes her eyes. "I'll get out. In just a second."</p><p>"Several seconds, more likely."</p><p>Her eyes bat back open, and she narrows them. <em>The pedant. </em>"Yeah. Several. Maybe even a few more than that."</p><p>"Well," he stammers. "Good, then."</p><p>"Very." It's dragging her under, his tense expression and the heavy steam, and it takes all her strength to shuffle backwards. Away. She needs to get some air; the heat is getting to her head. She sucks the sweet oxygen in, holds it in her cheeks, and pushes it out, and moves even further away, as if propelling herself. "This place is brilliant. How come I've never seen it before?"</p><p>The Doctor shrugs, looking happy to have a distraction. "There's loads of rooms you'll never see—probably even some that <em>I'll </em>never see. She's a very large ship, you know, and creative. But this room's modeled after one of our stops in Rome. I liked it there…" She watches his gaze slide away from her as she bobs in the water, the tops of her breasts feeling overheated and tender. The comparatively cooler air is soothing. Maybe he’s right and she <em>is </em>overheating.</p><p>Rose grimaces. "I didn't fancy it so much." She thinks of her stint as a statue and is suddenly flooded with relief again—that same heady high she’d felt while floating on her back. The Doctor has saved her more times, in more ways, than she can count. Today's just the latest of them. "Thank you, by the way. For rescuing me. Again."</p><p>The Doctor's gaze refocuses at that, a grin plucking at the corner of his mouth.</p><p>"Jeopardy-friendly."</p><p>"Well, I wasn't going to bring it up," she shoots back, "but you <em>did </em>sort of forget to mention the pink clothes thing." Rose bites down a grin at the sudden dip of his lips. "Technically, I'm only jeopardy-friendly by proximity to you."</p><p>His mouth flattens to a line. "Maybe you should keep your distance, then." And she can hear so much in that sentence—so many friends lost, so much pain and pretending. He tries to play it off as teasing, but she can hear the hurt there, underneath.</p><p>"No, ta," she replies, stepping closer once again. She straightens a little, letting more of her chest leave the water, so she doesn't have to look so far up at him. "I'm happy where I am, actually." She tries to keep herself from flushing, her body from reacting.</p><p>But there's months—or more realistically, years—of pent-up tension by now, and it makes her whole body tighten and tremor at his mere proximity. Her heart rate speeds as she steps closer; she wonders if he can hear it.</p><p>"Rose," he says, very softly.</p><p>"Yeah, Doctor?"</p><p>She hates how plaintive she sounds. How much she's hanging on his words.</p><p>"D'you…?" He trails off, pausing to rub a damp hand over his jaw. "Does it… <em>bother </em>you, when I… imply that we're…?" His struggle for the right words makes Rose's stomach twist, both in dread and desire.</p><p>"Together?" she finishes.</p><p>The word hangs between them.</p><p><em>Together. Forever. </em>She'd promised<em>. Together forever. Forever together. </em>An endless repeating loop.</p><p>"Yes," he nods. "That."</p><p>One of her eyebrows quirks. "Do I seem bothered to you?"</p><p>"Not particularly." The Doctor scratches the back of his head, and her eyes catch on the way the motion ripples through his chest and stomach, stretching the faint muscles there more taut. "I just thought I'd ask."</p><p>"After all this time?" she asks, increasingly confused.</p><p>"Yes," he clips out, clearly frustrated. "I just… I wouldn't want to cross any lines, that's all. I'd hate to think I made you feel…"</p><p>But he doesn't have a word for it—for how he thinks she feels.</p><p>Because he really, <em>actually </em>doesn't know.</p><p>How she feels, that is.</p><p>She reaches out to take his hand as it drops back to his side, twining her hot, slick fingers with his. It's a familiar gesture in an unfamiliar setting, made more intimate by the way her thumb brushes his bare hip on the way down. So different from their comfortable hip-bumping, shoulder-nudging flirtatious touches. So much more electric. And she wants to get closer still.</p><p>Rose straightens fully, her torso leaving the water. She feels rivulets of cooling water traveling between her breasts and down her belly, and she watches the Doctor's eyes drop for barely a moment—not even an entire second—before he regains control. His jaw shifts again, and he blinks once. "Rose."</p><p>"Doctor." She squeezes his hand. It's warm from the water, but still cooler than hers. "The only thing you make me feel is… good." Her mouth catches around the word. <em>There's a good girl. </em>But that’s something to think about <em>later. </em>"And, occasionally, slightly mental,” she adds with a half-smile. “But I've already promised you my forever. What else can I say?"</p><p>Her heart pounds up against her ribcage as she yet again stands right <em>there</em>—on the edge of saying everything she feels. It gives her whole body the sensation of being stretched tight. Waiting.</p><p>Waiting for him to understand.</p><p>But she knows she'll be waiting forever, unless she finds a way to say it in his language—in a way that goes beyond just meaningful half-touches and vague allusions.</p><p>The Doctor has drifted infinitesimally closer to her, stirring the steam around them. Their bodies create a cavern in the giant room—a small space which only the two of them inhabit, their breath mingling.</p><p>Rose makes up her mind.</p><p>She shifts her body, rolling up to the balls of her feet. It's slightly unwieldy—almost weightless—to be partly under water, and she braces herself against his shoulders. His arms dart out to her waist and his hands land, stabilizing and soft. As she grows steadier, she feels the pressure of his palms recede. But it's not what she wants, she wants <em>more</em>, and one of her own hands drops down, to press his fingers in—deeper. "You can," she says breathlessly. She looks up into his familiar brown eyes and wills him to hear her. "There's no line."</p><p>The Doctor's eyes grow round, irises swallowed in darkness. Black like the edge of a thundercloud. Not quite the Oncoming Storm, but just a little—just for her. His mouth drops open and his eyes flick to her lips. "There isn't." It might be a question, but it sounds like an affirmation.</p><p>Still, just in case, she nods slowly, her hair falling in damp waves around her face. "There isn't." Rose takes a deep breath—exhales. "There never was."</p><p>And she can't say whether he bends to her or she rises to him. It's a moment of synchrony, when their mouths collide. His lips taste even better than his finger—sweeter somehow. More like the honey at the bottom of a teacup. She wants more of it. When her hand abandons his, in favor of winding up around his neck, the Doctor—gratifyingly—squeezes her waist. Like he doesn't want to let go. It takes only a few seconds for the kiss to shift from slow and soft to something more, almost searching, tongues darting out. Testing. As close as they are, they are still finding their way to one another.</p><p>Her chest goes flush with his, and his hair drags slightly against her sensitive skin, resulting in a tremulous little whimper.</p><p>The noise grants him entrance, his tongue soothing over her plush bottom lip. It feels like her head is a balloon, floating away on a cloud of warm air and his breath. She wants to climb up his body and stay there, surviving off of this sensation forever. But she has to stop for air eventually, and her head falls back. Her toes have begun to ache. She sinks back down, hands sliding with her, down to rest on the Doctor’s forearms. And despite the swooping feeling of pleasure in her gut, she expects that to be the end of it. He's the Doctor, after all, and he doesn't seem like the type to feel her up in the bath. Surely there are limits to what he'll do.</p><p>But he surprises her, his hand cradling the back of her neck as he bends lower to kiss her again. His eyes are drowning in black, with only a thin corona of the usual brown. His other hand pulls her closer, flush with his hips—with his—</p><p>The noise he makes is pained, and his mouth pops open in shock.</p><p>“Sorry,” Rose pants, trying to disentangle herself from him. But it’s hard when he won’t let go of her, when his fingers are digging divots into her hips and his hand cradles the base of her skull, and it feels like just the right amount of pressure to shoot heat between her legs.</p><p>“Don’t move,” he says rapidly, “you’re perfect.”</p><p>The words shiver all the way down to her toes. <em>You’re perfect.</em></p><p>She knows she’s not; she’s common, and blushing, and her mascara’s probably running. She’s stubborn and occasionally catastrophically selfish. She’s panting like she’s run a mile and he’s barely even touched her. She wants him—has wanted him, doesn’t know how <em>not</em> to want him—with an embarrassing intensity that has manifested in all sorts of ways. Awkward ways. Unhealthy ways. Downright ridiculous ways.</p><p>Like whatever this… <em>thing </em>is, with the commands and then the praise.</p><p>“Rose?”</p><p>Her eyelids flutter open, though she wasn’t even aware they’d closed. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Your pulse is, um… elevated.” His eyes slide from her face—down the column of her neck to where he can no doubt make out the faint fluttering of her heartbeat. His hand slides out of her hair, long fingers circling her throat. She leans into it.</p><p>“Yeah. That happens when you fancy someone, I think.”</p><p>“Right.” His voice sounds oddly blank, as if he’s somewhere else. In his head, maybe. She rolls her hips gently against him; the water absorbs some of the friction, but it's enough to pull him back to her. His eyes flash again. “You fancy me,” he says.</p><p>“I do.” She pauses. “Is that all right?” And for a moment, she wonders if maybe, for him, this is a bit more chemical—a bit less like love. She bites down on her lip, hard.</p><p>His gaze and his fingers follow the action, thumb sliding up to pull her lip from between her teeth. She puckers her lips against the digit, a ghostly kiss that tastes like tea steam. “It’s perfectly all right,” he says slowly. “Just a bit of a shock.”</p><p>And even though she doesn’t understand, she nods like she does. She’s been inside herself too long to be surprised by what she feels for him. It’s like any other fact of life now. Like oxygen, or gravity. It just <em>is</em>. But instead of telling him that, she asks, “When you get over your shock, would you kiss me again?”</p><p>He doesn’t answer; there’s no need.</p><p>Instead, he dives down to pull her into another head-spinning, toe-curling kiss, his fingers cradling her jaw and pulling her head up, up toward him, closer. She grabs at his arm for stability, and then his neck—her fingers tighten in his hair, and it summons a huff, hot against her mouth—and before she can become aware of anything but the pressure of his lips against hers, he is walking her backwards, through ever-shallower water. As they leave behind the heat and steam, goosebumps prickling on her ribs and arms, the immediate warmth of him—positively searing in the cooler air—becomes a lifeline. The only shelter for her bare skin. She presses herself against him, grinding. The friction makes them both groan.</p><p>When his hands slide down to her hips and grip, she can’t tell if he’s lifting her away or up, and she clings like a koala to his shoulders.</p><p>The Doctor laughs shakily. “Just rearranging,” he soothes. “Don’t worry.” She doesn’t, her head too full of wanting and her whole body throbbing with growing pressure. She lets her mouth fall to the juncture of his throat where she feels his heartbeat, latching to the deceptively fragile skin and sucking until it bruises. She is satisfied by the purple flush, and by the convulsive clench of his fingers, and the way he gasps out her name. “<em>Rose</em>.”</p><p>Is it a warning, or a prayer? Either way, she smiles against his skin, and wonders if two hearts means she might feel his pulse on the other side of his throat. She draws back and he leans in for a kiss, which she cleverly evades. She wants twin marks on his skin: one for each heart. Rose nips and soothes and then sucks, and when he makes an incoherent sort of noise—somewhere between a grunt and a gasp—she feels a thrill of triumph.</p><p>That is, until the backs of her calves bump cool marble. It’s so shocking it stings, and she flinches. “Shh, it’s all right. It’ll only feel cold for a second.”</p><p>“Haven’t you got your sonic or something? To heat it up?” she whines, gripping him tighter. But the squirming only slides her down his body, loosening his grip and causing her to lose her support.</p><p>He grumbles a laugh, setting her down against the cold tile. Her bum flashes freezing for a long moment, but his hand sliding up her ribs to cradle one of her breasts distracts her. His touch still feels like an electric shock, like a surprise. As her mouth pops open, he lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “And where would I be keeping it, hm?”</p><p>Her gaze darts low for a second, brushing over his now-very-exposed, and undeniably-quite-human-looking cock, hanging heavily out of the water. And then she glances back up meaningfully, letting her eyebrows arch.</p><p>“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I absolutely refuse to let you draw a comparison between my sonic and my—”</p><p>“Screwdriver?” she finishes, her voice coming out breathy and low. “No, certainly not.”</p><p>"Rose," he warns, trying to suppress his amusement. His pleasure is so sweet, so wonderfully unfettered. All the tension he'd brought into the pool has drifted away, absorbed in the water. His thumb flicks over her nipple, and it beads beneath his hand, stifling her ability to summon a sensible reply. Smirking, he announces, "I have something I want to try."</p><p>"Mm?"</p><p>"I'm not entirely—" he starts, but then frowns. "I want you to be sure before—blimey, this is hard." He interrupts himself and pulls his hand away to rake through his hair. Her breasts feel bereft, her body strung tight with anticipation. "Thing is, I don't want to..."</p><p>"Shag," Rose helpfully supplies.</p><p>"Precisely. Right now, I mean. That is—we should probably…"</p><p>"Talk first?" She's uncertain and it shows.</p><p>There's relief in his eyes as he nods. "You're <em>quite </em>good at this communication stuff," he admits. "Better than I am. I know how to talk, obviously, but mostly just nonsense."</p><p>"You'll get better with practice," she assures him, arm stretching out toward him, hand fanning flat over his chest. And to her relief, he leans into it, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. There’s something innocent about it; if she hadn’t just run with him, hand-in-hand through a crowded city, she’d assume he’s touch-starved. Or maybe it’s another type of hunger. She wonders how long its been—<em>if </em>it's been—</p><p>But Rose shakes the thought away. That bit will come with the talking, too.</p><p>"You said you wanted to try something, Doctor?" Her legs are floating upwards on the gentle current of the water, and she uses the motion to wrap her legs around the backs of his, her feet drifting up and down frictionlessly. "I'm <em>very </em>interested in you trying things."</p><p>"Right," he nods, and in one smooth move, he untangles her legs from his and drops unceremoniously to his knees. Suddenly eye-level with her sex, and she watches as his tongue darts out to wet his lips; it's entrancing, the way his gaze slides up her body, mapping out the planes and curves, and then back down to the juncture of her thighs.</p><p>"Oh," she manages, the sound punching past her lips. "You wanted to—"</p><p>"Yes," he hurries out, eyes latched and unmoving. He looks almost desperate, leaning toward her as if magnetically attracted. "Is that all right?" he asks her cunt.</p><p>Rose's nervous giggle rises unbidden, and she slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle it. He <em>wants </em>her. Properly. Enough to kneel down and salivate over her. Enough to not-quite-shag her in a giant tub.</p><p>Enough to want to talk about it after.</p><p>He finally glances up at her, expression a mix of confusion and desire. "Rose?"</p><p>She gently lowers her hand and nods, barely able to whisper an affirmative. "Yeah."</p><p>The magnetic pull must be strong, because there is no hesitation. The Doctor leans in and presses soft kisses to the inside of her thigh, twice, several times. He isn't patient by nature, but she's relieved when he takes his time working up her legs—first one, and then the other—getting her used to the idea, until she can feel his warm breath against the slick apex of her thighs. Almost panting. And she can see it, too: the way his lips hang parted, pinked and plush, waiting to cross that final line.</p><p>She burns hotter, and she wonders how she ever stood him being less than this, this<em> close. </em></p><p>Slowly, he lands a kiss against her lower lips, first gentle—ticklish, almost. But then it turns probing, his tongue licking a long stripe up and up, swirling around her clit while her breath catches, suspended in her chest. It's a shock of sensation. Touching a too-hot surface, or a spatter of freezing rain. It feels like everything at once, positively overwhelming.</p><p>Her thighs try to lock around him instinctively, body uncertain as to whether it wants more or less—but his quick hands dart up, holding them apart. And despite her blushing, he spreads her legs further, thumbs moving in small, matching circles.</p><p>"Relax," he mumbles, eyes still glued to her—to a part of her body that has never received this sort of prolonged attention; it should make her feel embarrassed, maybe, to have his eyes on her like this, but she's all heady pleasure when he drags his tongue over her again. Tasting her like he's tasted jams and banana varieties and occasionally a wall or something else unusual. There is a curiosity to it, matched by the hunger.</p><p>Her limbs soften, and so does his grip on her. "Good, just like that," he whispers, the words buzzing against her skin.</p><p>And she—</p><p>Whatever <em>that </em>is, whatever quirk of her psychology—it makes her whimper. <em>Good. </em>She is <em>good, </em>she hears. Or feels, in her nerve endings and in her very being.</p><p>This time, she knows he knows.</p><p>His eyes dart upwards, his head tilting curiously as he pulls back, and it's just not possible that he's unaware of the way his words affected her. She watches as he licks his lips and pauses. It's a thoughtful silence. "Rose," he finally says—slowly, carefully, drawing the single syllable of her name out. "I want you to lean back—I know it's cold, but you'll need your hands free. I want you to touch your breasts. However you like—however you do when you're alone." He speaks so evenly, strangely matter-of-fact about something he presumably knows nothing of.</p><p>She nearly blushes at the memories: all the times she's locked herself in her very own bedroom, here on the ship, and let her fingers knead her flesh while she pretended they belonged to him. But he catches her gaze again, and holds it, and she doesn't blush. "Don't stop until I tell you. Can you do that for me?"</p><p>Mutely, she nods. Her throat is too dry, her tongue too heavy to form words.</p><p>"Good girl," he says, still in that low tone, looking right into her eyes, because he <em>knows</em>. He knows that those words are something special—that they unlock an unconscious reaction that she can't define or explain. "<em>So</em> good," he emphasizes, running his hands over her thighs. And when her hips flex, liquid heat gathering between her thighs, his lips hitch on one side. It's positively filthy. "That's very convenient, you know. Like a shortcut."</p><p>Her stomach unknots itself when she realizes he's not judging her. That he's <em>using </em>it, enjoying it.</p><p>"Now, lay back," comes the soft command. "I want you to come on my tongue."</p><p>The words—<em>come, tongue, oh god</em>—short out her brain, and she obeys, leaning back until the open ceiling fills her vision again, blue and clouded with steam. It is peaceful—like she's still floating. And in a way, she is. The whole ship is. Everything, every planet, every star in every part of space, is just floating. Just—</p><p>His tongue burns so much hotter when she can't see it, searing a line toward her clit, sparking her nerve endings in its wake. And then it flicks away, unexpected and sudden.</p><p>"Your hands, Rose."</p><p>She responds instantly—can't move fast enough, actually, cupping her hands around her breasts and pinching the pebbled tips in a familiar way. His tongue slides over her in tandem, and then she is lost. No longer floating.</p><p>Drowning.</p><p>She is lost in wave after wave of sensation, chasing after pleasure as it ebbs and crests. His mouth is quick and clever—no surprise there—and he makes it too easy to follow. To run after the promise of impossible heights, plunging depths.</p><p>When his tongue dips inside of her on one journey upwards, Rose's back arches up off the tile and it's only the weight of his hand pressing into her stomach that keeps her from flying apart, from disseminating into the air like so many atoms. Her voice—whatever noise it is she's making, whatever plea or prayer—echoes through the room, ghostly and surreal.</p><p>"You taste like heaven," the Doctor sighs, and Rose nearly laughs. She's sure she doesn't; she no doubt tastes like cunt, and maybe a bit like violet-almond steam, and probably like a lot of "want to fuck the Doctor" hormones.</p><p>"Do Time Lords—<em>huh</em>—even believe… in heaven?" Her words come out gasped, staggered and broken. She doesn't even know what he's doing at this point—something clever, probably, with suction and pressure and friction and a whole lot of swirling, turning her belly into a whirlpool of staggering want—and she lifts her head to look, shuffling up on her arms.</p><p>He smiles up from the apex of her thighs, lips slick and shiny. "This one does."</p><p>Rose almost wants to roll her eyes, but she can't quite. Not when he immediately falls back to his task with an energy and enthusiasm that only he could possibly bring. A gut-punch of a gasp falls out of her mouth before she can stop it, turning into a giggle when his eyebrows wiggle. And then he wraps his lips around her tender nerve endings and sucks.</p><p>"Don't stop," she pleads, grin falling away, thumbs and forefingers still pinching as she works herself over. A spark shoots in a direct line from her nipple to her clit. "I'm—"</p><p>And it's odd, really, to feel so much joy and so much tension, a screw tightening, and so much uncertainty and so much <em>pleasure</em> all at once. She wonders how her mind can handle it, and her head falls back. "I'm gonna—"</p><p>His mouth disappears, but it's barely even a moment of deprivation before both hands are on her, fingers <em>in</em> her, curling upwards and coaxing, one thumb spinning out over her clit. The change is sudden and sharp and sends her careening towards the edge in a much more tangible, more hurried way. "Rose," he rasps.</p><p><em>Nobody else,</em> she thinks. <em>Nobody says it like he does.</em></p><p>"You've no idea… how long I've wanted to—"</p><p>Her head lolls forward, and he's <em>looking </em>at her. Looking at her like she's everything.</p><p>"—how much I—"</p><p>Frissons down her spine. She feels lit from within.</p><p>"—wanted <em>you</em>—"</p><p>"Please," she says, though she doesn't know—can't tell—what she's asking for.</p><p>"Yes," he answers. "I always did. I'm sorry, I'm so—Rose, <em>please</em>—my perfect, precious girl—"</p><p>And then his mouth is on her again, latching to her clit and tugging and doing all sorts of things, unnameable things. <em>My perfect, precious girl.</em></p><p>
  <em>My precious girl.</em>
</p><p>His fingers nudge a spot inside her, just right. His tongue and teeth and lips do something else, just right.</p><p>She is precious to him.</p><p>She is <em>his</em>.</p><p>"Doctor," she gasps.</p><p>And then—</p><p>Rose says something unintelligible as she comes. Something swallowed by white light and a buzzing in her ears and the rocking of her hips as the Doctor kisses and licks and nibbles her through it, pressure gently receding. But not enough—his touch sends aftershocks, one after another, and it feels like she might never stop. Her cunt will just keep tightening, flexing and rolling around his fingers, forever. All of time.</p><p>"Rose," he says, his fingers jostling that place inside her again, causing another involuntary spasm. She keens. "Can you—touch me, here," and he pulls one of her hands into his, her spine curving as she reaches down toward his head, which is still hovering just away from her. She both wants and doesn't want him to come closer.</p><p>Panting, she asks, "Like this?" And she presses two fingers to his temple, like she's seen him do before.</p><p>"Yes," he hisses. "That's—thank you."</p><p>She isn't sure that she feels anything. <em>Should </em>she be feeling something?</p><p>"No," he answers, though she didn't speak aloud. His words come through gritted teeth. "It's—you're like the transmitter, yeah? And I'm the receiver. Right now, the connection only goes one way." As he speaks, the hand cradling hers slides down and away, under the rippling surface of the water. He's—with another bolt of desire, she realizes that he's probably touching himself.</p><p>"<em>Oh.</em>"</p><p>He makes a small noise, strangled. "I can feel you—how much you—" and then his fingers curl inside her again, and her vision whites. "<em>Rose</em>," he sighs, and it's too much; it's all too much.</p><p>She's never done it like this—just kept going. But she somehow feels close again, like she'd stopped only to start again, this time traversing a shorter distance to reach the precipice. Her hand slips down between her legs, taking up the place where his tongue had been only moments before. The memory jolts through her, of him.</p><p>
  <em>My perfect, precious girl.</em>
</p><p>Of his mouth on her. Her fingers spin deft, practiced circles and he's watching—he's <em>looking </em>at her as she touches herself, the same way she's done it a thousand times.</p><p>Twin pools of black-swallowed brown gaze up at her. "Did you think of me?" he asks, sounding desperate—almost pained.</p><p>Of course she has.</p><p>She's thought of grabbing him by his big ears and dragging him down between her legs, his nose nudging her clit and blue eyes shimmering with molten heat. She's thought of raking her hands through his perfectly-mussed hair and utterly <em>ruining </em>it. She's thought of sucking him off under the console, of him fucking her slowly against the cool tile of the shower, of wrapping herself in nothing but his leather jacket, or his duster coat, or that scarf he hides in the wardrobe room and spreading herself out over the grating like a feast. She's thought of spelling out the words with her tongue across his body, telling him over and over—</p><p>Of <em>saying—</em></p><p>And <em>surely</em> he feels it, when she comes again.</p><p>Fireworks pop and burst down her spine, trickling like liquid fire while her muscles spasm around his long fingers. It shouldn't be surprising, but it is—she shouldn't be able to come this hard this fast, but she does. Rose's mouth forms an "o" as her fingers dig into his hair.</p><p>Beneath the water, his hand blurs. And above it, the Doctor stares up at her, open and unmade. "Rose," he groans. And then his eyes flutter shut, and she knows he's coming, too—knows it by his face, and by the echo in her own mind. Odd, disembodied, it curls through her like a faint breeze before blowing away.</p><p>For a moment, she can feel their place among the stars—among the time and tides of the universe. For just a scant second, she feels infinite.</p><p>Rose's hand slides slowly away from his temple, skating down his cheek and the freckles that dust it. Something in her says not to break contact immediately; she doesn't <em>want </em>to. She wants to hang on to those lingering traces of infinity, speckling her vision like a million distant stars.</p><p>She exhales, weightless and bright.</p><p>But all over her body, gooseflesh is breaking out—the air is cold against her sensitized skin, brushing needlessly over her bare body. She wants to slide back into the water and the warm circle of the Doctor's arms. Sensing her thoughts, he pulls her down from the ledge, gentle—smoothing away little aftershocks with the brush of his fingers.</p><p>"Thank you," he says—not breathless, but close.</p><p><em>Did he hear?</em> She wonders. <em>Did he see?</em></p><p>Her thumb brushes one high, pale cheekbone, and he nods.</p><p>She has her answer. He could hear the word she wasn't saying—that she'd envisioned painting his body with.</p><p>Worry flares and fades. He knows, but he's not running. "I didn't even get to touch you," she says, a mild rebuke colored with humor. <em>He knows that I love him, </em>she thinks.</p><p>He nods again, hand covering hers, and his throat bobs. "I know, I'm sorry." <em>He knows. </em></p><p>"Next time," Rose asserts<em>—next time what?—</em>and that's all she has the energy for; she feels spent and lethargic. So she slumps forward, into his arms, against his chest where the double heartbeat plays a soothing rhythm against her ear. He holds her tight.</p><p>As warmth sinks back into her limbs, those same feelings return from earlier: safety, calm.</p><p>Together, they float a little while longer.</p>
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